


We Need to Talk

by Leviafan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/pseuds/Leviafan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade break up; Lestrade goes back to his wife; the state of foreign relations deteriorates; Sherlock finally steps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Need to Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Take no notice of the completely different style of the morgue scene, because I don't know why either.

It all started with a text— simple, direct, but ominous.

Not least because Mycroft never texted.

The minute it arrived, announced by a soft ding, Lestrade pulled out his phone, expecting an update from Sherlock on that weird rash of murders at the circus— but when he checked his phone and saw the message, he rolled his eyes. Wrong Holmes brother.

Gregory, we need to talk. -Mycroft

His teeth gritted as he pecked out his reply. Mycroft knew full well he was at work, what the hell was he doing texting him in the middle of the day? Finally he punched ‘send’ more viciously than the button deserved.

Are you at the club?

There wasn’t a response for nearly half an hour, which lulled Lestrade into a false sense of security until he thought Mycroft was probably sulking. But he’d been too much of an optimist and a text arrived with a defiant ding to prove him wrong.

Soon. I’m at home. -Mycroft

Damn it, I’m doing my best! thought Lestrade; but the day was winding down so he said his goodbyes and headed out. When he arrived at Mycroft’s place, the Holmes family’s ancestral home just outside the city, he was still in a foul mood. He didn’t mince his words, didn’t even let the other man ask if he’d like a drink as he always did. No, he did not need a drink. He wanted to be as clear-headed as possible. “Right, Mycroft, what’s this about?” he demanded.

Mycroft shrank slightly from what felt like an attack, but when he spoke his voice was calm. “I’m sorry for interrupting your work—” he held up a hand to preempt Lestrade’s protests— “but I need to know. What is this thing between us?”

The detective inspector stared back, confusion in his brown eyes. “Why does it matter? It is what it is.”

“I need to know,” Mycroft answered simply, but this provoked a hot response from Lestrade, who rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I get it. You’re always categorizing things, you need a label for everything... tucking ‘em away in that great big brain of yours.”

“This is no different.”

“Maybe not to you—! Why can’t you just let it be?”

“You might want to stop quoting song lyrics at me,” Mycroft said with a tinge of acidity. “I know you have more originality than that.” He moved to a small table where a bottle of sherry sat and poured himself a glass. “Would you like some? Sherry, I mean.” Meanwhile Greg was sputtering, lost for words.

“I’m not quot— and no thanks. I need my wits about me for this.” He glared across the room at Mycroft. The man could be so bloody infuriating.

Case in point— “Suit yourself,” he said, taking a sip. “Please, Greg, there’s something on your mind. Tell me.”

Lestrade hesitated— but it wasn’t worth the effort trying to lie to Mycroft Holmes, so finally he answered, “I need a break from... whatever this is. I’ve got a job, and yeah, maybe it’s not as important as yours, but I can’t be at your beck and call every minute.”

For the tiniest of moments, Mycroft’s mask slipped, and he seemed older. This was not the direction he’d planned for this conversation to take. He stared at his hands, idly worrying his ring. But when he spoke, he was just as tightly reined in as ever. “I’m not asking you to be.” A pause grew up in the silence, hinting at things he wanted to say, but then the lines of his face hardened into a decision.

“I... if that’s what you want. Yes, that might be for the best.”

Greg, who over the months of their... acquaintance had become familiar with the finer details that made up the jigsaw pieces of Mycroft, could hear the emotion there, and it cut him. He even considered taking back his words; but no, he had to stand on his own two feet again, just— see if he still could.

But he walked out into the downpour without an umbrella.

* * *

After he’s gone, Mycroft sits and contemplates the glass of sherry, but without really seeing it.

Greg Lestrade has become another of his habits, a routine. The regimented order of his days is what he clings to when the pressure of preventing three wars before breakfast becomes unbearable. The trouble is, this habit has legs. It can just get up and leave. In fact, it just has, and Mycroft feels like a boat run aground on some foreign shore.

Perhaps the worst part is that he doesn’t know what caused the rupture. It was a simple enough question, but something about it had struck a nerve. Or maybe it has little to do with the question. It might be something that’s been building for a while, that he’d somehow missed. That wasn’t a comforting thought either. A man with his brain, his level of observation, somehow misses the most important detail—

He should go review his files on Greg, see if they have any clue; but he doesn’t. He sits and downs his sherry, replaying the conversation over and over again.

The ending never gets any easier.

* * *

Lestrade was not the kind of man who liked to beg, but luckily for him, his ex-wife also wasn’t the type of woman who would make him.

When she saw him standing on the top step, his hair plastered to his head by the rain, a dazed look in his eyes, it took her only a moment to decide. He squeezed past her into the entry hall, giving her a rueful half-smile as he did. It was an invitation to say “I told you so,” but Diane didn’t take it. She just followed him into the kitchen, offered to make tea, didn’t speak again until they both held a steaming cup to warm their hands.

They stood across from each other in the middle of the kitchen, both unsure where to start or whether they even should. Finally Lestrade shifted, the tiredness showing in every movement.

“Where’s Angie?’

“Asleep.”

Checking his watch, Lestrade closed his eyes. Had he really been out wandering the streets of London that long?

Diane stared levelly at him, unsmiling but with a sympathetic tilt to her head. “Greg, what’s happened?” She knew a little about his life after their divorce— they were still in contact because of Angie and anyway they were still friends— but she’d never met his new… boyfriend. That was strange too. She’d been a little floored when Greg told her. He’d just never struck him as having a queer bone in his body. Still, he’d seemed happy with it, so she’d tried to be supportive.

Clutching his mug like a security blanket, he said, “It’s… I guess it’s over.” Diane bit her tongue to keep from saying “Obviously” because it was plain to them both. Her silence was encouraging, so he plunged on. “I don’t even know what for. I just— need somewhere to stay the night.” It was deeply embarrassing to admit this because it meant he didn’t even have a flat to call his own.

But Diane wasn’t one to stick the knife in. “The sofa’s free,” she said without hesitation. He shot her a grateful smile; this was why he sometimes wished things had turned out differently. They had been best friends, but it wasn’t quite enough glue to hold a marriage together with. She had gotten tired of spending her nights alone while he was still out working a case and started up an affair with the downstairs neighbor. Well, Lestrade (despite what Sherlock Holmes seemed to think) was not an unobservant man and pretty soon they were having the Talk. There was no rancor from either side, but whatever they had, the marriage itself was just dead. So they’d separated.

But now… even settling in under a pile of blankets on the sofa felt weirdly a lot like coming home.

* * *

“Sir, I’ve got the prime minister on the line, he wants to know how we should respond to the trial in Iran— sir? Sir?” Anthea continued to stand there deferentially waiting for a response, but she didn’t like the look in her employer’s eyes. It was a haunted look, like nobody was home— only that just didn’t happen with Mycroft Holmes. He might look vacant but there was always something going on. Though she would never presume to mention it, being just as discreet as Mycroft, she was worried.

Under normal circumstances Mycroft would have been worried too, but he was past even that. The walls of objectivity he had so meticulously built up, evaporated in less time than it took to pour a drink, and now he was naked to the world— or so it seemed to him. With difficulty he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. Ah yes… the trial of the former president’s daughter started today. A brief frown crossed Mycroft’s brow. Hadn’t all that been decided months ago when word finally came she was to be put on trial? Sighing he said, “The phone please,” holding out his hand for it. With that, order was restored.

Later, when the lights were off in Downing Street and Mycroft finally went home, the skein started to unravel again, just a little. Like any routine, he had come to expect Greg to be there, an illusion that had been reinforced by the fact that he always had been, up till now. He had always got along best by keeping aloof from expectations as much as possible, and though he set high standards for himself, he tried not to let the failures get to him.

But this strange dependence had slipped past his defenses, sneaking in like a kiss on a sleeping lover’s forehead before dawn. It had made its home on his hearth without even asking, and it hadn’t asked permission to leave.

Still, Christmas alone was no stranger to him, so he settled into a chair by the fire with a good book and a rather large snifter of brandy. From time to time he looked up to stare into the fire, as though it might speak to him. Ultimately though, the disruption of his night came in the form of a phone call.

He was strangely glad to hear his brother’s voice on the other end, but of course he would never let on. It wasn’t the Holmes way. The barb offered in lieu of affection landed on indifferent ears, which wasn’t at all surprising. Sherlock wouldn’t call him except as a last resort. Must be serious, he thought, and it was. Irene Adler, dead. Well, it at least would keep his mind from stagnating in a swamp of morose treacle.

After Sherlock rang off, he stood at his window, watching the snow float down in an unending stream.

Then he set about making his own calls.

* * *

Setting: the morgue, St Bartholomew’s. Cast: two brothers.

Shot: Pair of profiles seen through a door. Then cut to a grieving family.

Without turning one of the brothers says, “Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

The other’s voice is taut with the tension of feelings he’s not allowing himself. “All lives end.” The ghost of a grimace that would go unnoticed by all but his brother— only he’s not looking. “All hearts are broken.” Including his, which he’d thought impossible. “Caring is not an advantage—“ finally he looks towards his brother, mask back in place— “Sherlock.”

And he knows it, God how he knows. His brother can see it, can even see its cause, but for once in his life he passes up the opportunity to claw at his elder sibling’s eyes because finally he knows it too.

They share the silence and the smoke from their cigarettes until one says with disgust, “This is low tar.”

The other responds, deadpan, “Well, you barely knew her.”

They say their goodbyes with only slightly ironic holiday spirit. As soon as the one leaves, the other is on his phone. Speed dial the friend, lock down his brother’s safety if just for the night.

Yes, he knows caring is not an advantage, but the knowledge is in no way a deterrent.

* * *

New year, fresh start, right?

It was a paradox though. On the job, on the subject of crimes, he trusted Sherlock’s opinion implicitly. But he was sticking with Diane despite what he’d said at Christmas. The words were like a canker, worrying at him, but he was ignoring them as best he could, because it was good, being back home.As time went on, the months blurred into each other and he got used to the way things were... again. The deja vu was comforting rather than depressing. He made a special effort to carve out time for Angie— weekends were sacrosanct now, and anyone fool enough to intrude on them for anything short of a national emergency (in which case, why were they consulting him?) was liable to wind up with their head on a stick.

But it wasn’t even just Angie; there was a reason he and Diane had stayed friends even though.... even though. They liked each other. It was easy to be together, like a pair of old slippers. Not like what he’d had with Mycroft. That had been prickly, complicated— good, too, but it had required more upkeep.

And with the cases he was fielding lately, Lestrade needed low-maintenance.

For example, there was the one the press were already calling the Ovaltine murders. A man and his children had been found earlier that morning. At first the theory had been murder-suicide. The children lay in their beds, their features contorted in the grotesque masks of poisoning— the evidence pointed to arsenic in their bedtime cocoa. Their father was sprawled at the foot of the staircase as though he’d fallen there.

Lestrade had nearly tumbled down after him when someone at his shoulder said, “Pushed... but that’s not what killed him.”

He knew instinctively who it was and didn’t bother suppressing a sigh. “What’d we miss?” he asked grudgingly. “Only everything of any importance,” came the reply, followed by an infuriating but irrefutable train of logic leading to his nice simple murder-suicide becoming a homicide by person or persons unknown, and his free time exploded into shards. He was grateful for the consulting detective’s help on the case though— it was a queer one.

Except he didn’t seem to be much help, which was strange. Very strange. Once or twice when he glanced over at the man Lestrade thought he saw the traces of a conspiratorial smile, but he couldn’t guess what it might mean. So he just left it alone and got on with his job as best he could.

It wasn’t easy though, especially not with the prima donna detective on the scene. They were ostensibly on the same side, but Sherlock got on everyone’s nerves, poking and prodding and generally getting in the way. He had absolutely no sense of propriety and trampled on toes both physical and metaphorical. But then he straightened up, smoothed his coat, and looked at Lestrade with something like mischief in his eyes. The detective inspector braced himself, but what Sherlock said only confused him. “We’re going to have to call in the government on this.”

“Excuse me?” Lestrade stared at him, brow furrowed. “We are the government. Got a pension and everything. Unless I’m missing something—”

“You usually are,” Sherlock interrupted, whipping out his phone. “No, I mean the government.”

Greg’s heart sank, but he knew better than to argue. At least, too much. “Can I ask why we’re calling him in, or would that be overstepping my bounds?”

“No need to get snippy, Inspector,” Sherlock replied with barely contained glee. Meanwhile the phone was ringing. “Hello, brother dear? Yes, I think I’ve got something for you. Can’t discuss it over the phone.” Lestrade listened to him giving their current location and felt his dread growing. He was a professional, he could handle it... didn’t mean he wanted to though. After Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket, he asked again, “Why?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, isn’t it obvious?” Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Sherlock looked around to see blank faces staring back at him. Damn. “His death could have major implications for the Korean elections and a number of things Mycroft would probably have me skinned alive for mentioning.”

Lestrade stared at him, wearing a skeptical expression. Since when had taking the piss out of Mycroft been an incentive not to do something? Now that, that right there was suspicious as hell. But, well, he still had a job to do and a murder to solve, he didn’t have time to think about what Sherlock might or might not be planning. He was kneeling to get another look at the man’s body, trying to guess what it was about him that had caused Sherlock to contact his much-hated brother, when a familiar voice came from behind him. He deliberately refused to look right away, remaining where he was.

“All right, this had better be good, Sherlock... ah. Good morning, detective inspector.”

When he finally turned, deciding he couldn’t get away with ignoring the man altogether, he saw Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, looking as impassive as ever. He swallowed his anger, however, and stood up, responding equally formally, “Hello again, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock was glancing between the pair of them and he snorted at that, causing them both to look round. “Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes?” He sounded incredulous and began oscillating his fingers like confused spiders. “I never will learn how these things work. Does sentiment make everyone else go completely mad? Because last I checked you two were on... first-name basis.”

Lestrade grimaced at him. “What the hell would you know about—” He broke off when Mycroft raised a hand.

“This is my brother we’re talking about. Of course he knew. The only question is—”

“What am I up to now?” Sherlock asked coolly. “Surely that’s obvious.”

“Too obvious,” Mycroft replied. “But you said you had something for me, or was that merely a convenient decoy?”

“No, there actually is a dead body. You have seen a few of those, haven’t you? Even with your sheltered life?”

The only concession Mycroft made to his brother was a small sigh. “Just show me.”

Lestrade trailed along behind them, feeling a bit like a third wheel, but he was the officer in charge here. He had to make sure the civilians didn’t muck things up, right? That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Mycroft bent down with a sigh to examine the body of the father more closely. Almost instantly a frown crossed his face and Lestrade watched him, arms crossed over his chest. Finally he couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer and he tilted his head at the body. “Okay, what’s the international crisis?”

Glancing up as though he’d forgotten the inspector was even there, Mycroft offered him an apologetic smile. “You don’t need to concern yourself. We’ll deal with it.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“It won’t affect your murder investigation.” Straightening up again, he began to discuss something with his brother, too quietly for Lestrade to hear. The policeman stared at them, inwardly seething. He was doing it again, damn it. He sighed deeply. The man didn’t owe him an explanation now, but it stirred up silty memories of … before. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had to content himself with just being there, watching while something tore at Mycroft’s insides— but he couldn’t talk about it, not to Greg. He didn’t care about security clearance; he wasn’t going to sell state secrets to the Chinese, he just wanted to comfort Mycroft. But no, that was too much to ask from Her Majesty’s government.

This was the same, but different. Lestrade knew he had absolutely no basis to demand a response, but he still wanted one. He could see from the angle of Mycroft’s head, the slight crinkling at the corner of his eyes, that the stakes were incredibly high; and though to most people he would appear fine, he wasn’t. The urge to walk round the body and embrace him, at least put a hand on his shoulder, was almost overwhelming.

To his horror, Mycroft chose this moment to look over, and it must have been written all across his face because he gave Lestrade what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. The sight broke something inside the inspector but he continued to stand where he was, the only indication a quick swallow. If he’d just ignored Greg’s concern, just kept his mask on, maybe he would have been able to resist, but he’d actually responded…. tried to reassure him, which meant that despite everything, he still cared.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was watching the scene play out, his expression unreadable. Finally he said, “Oh, get a room, you two.” Mycroft rounded on him, the tops of his ears suddenly pink, but his brother just shrugged. “Don’t bother to deny it.”

“You’re behind this,” Mycroft said, his head tilted back in an attempt to maintain some level of dignity.

“Of course I am. I was concerned about the deteriorating state of foreign relations. It was getting bad enough that even I noticed.”

Mycroft gave him a stern look. “You mean John told you.”

“Aha! Then you don’t deny it,” Sherlock exclaimed. “So, consider this my contribution to the cause of world peace.”

Mycroft stared back, unimpressed, then rolled his eyes and turned back to Lestrade. “I… I think we have to have a talk. A proper one this time.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, massaging his temple as he stared resolutely at a space to the left of Mycroft. “What do you think, can it wait ‘til lunch?”

Mycroft gave a small, sad smile and glanced at the body. “Given that we’ve both got quite a long day ahead of us, dinner might be better. I can pick you up around seven?”

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good.” Of course the man knew where he was living— or if he didn’t already, he could soon find out. The thought made Lestrade sigh. He didn’t really want to give up living with Diane and Angie, but it was definitely not working out like he’d hoped. Sherlock had been right, as usual, so he supposed the news wouldn’t come as much of a shock to Diane anyway.

Mycroft had already turned his attention back to the corpse and whatever dire meaning it had; Lestrade’s lips quirked into a wry smile. That was so like Mycroft, switching subject on a dime, and if sometimes it tried his patience, well… he had a lot of patience to give.


End file.
